


When The Sun Goes Down

by clumsycopy



Category: The Dead Don't Die (2019)
Genre: F/M, Forced Orgasm, Innocence, Knifeplay, Proceed with caution, dubcon, innocence kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:09:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29613390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clumsycopy/pseuds/clumsycopy
Summary: On the eleventh hour a saviour rescues you from a gruesome death at the hands of zombies. He promises safety. A shelter. He cares about you. But why does he have the most ununsual way of checking if you’ve been bitten?His eyebrows furrow. “Are you sure? I want you to think long and hard about it. One of the first symptoms of turning into the zombies is full loss of sensitivity. You have to tell me everything you’re feeling. I’m gonna do it again.”
Relationships: Ronald Peterson (The Dead Don't Die)/Reader, Ronald Peterson (The Dead Don't Die)/You
Kudos: 10





	When The Sun Goes Down

Gore. Putrefaction. Blood. Limbs. Undead bodies. The cursed dawn gave way to dusk and now you find yourself with your foot stuck in the half-crushed jaw of a zombie.

  
A crowd of sluggish, ashen-skinned corpses surround you, those who still have their skulls intact muttering incoherent words. You almost feel sorry for wrecking the face of someone who probably once was a gentle farmer, but you’re still alive and would like to keep it that way.

Your arms hurt, muscles tense and depleted, static prickling under your skin. Swinging your baseball bat one more time, you swat at the closest monster, hitting its kneecap and pushing it away a few feet. The weapon in your hold might as well be a toothpick, it’s useless now that you can’t even wield it anymore. 

Another one comes.

Gritting your teeth, you will your body to spring into action, watching in horror as it moves at half the speed it should.

A siren rings in the distance, red and blue lights flashing so bright that you scrunch your eyes shut for a moment. Tires screech on asphalt, the car speeding through the horde of undead, crushing bowels and heads under its wheels. It stops near you and a man jumps out, slicing his way across the remaining zombies. He’s a beast, finishing off all of them while remaining unbothered, eyes trained on your pitiful form.

Crimson, thick rivulets cascade down the lengths of his machete. He steps towards you, eyebrows furrowed. “How long have you been like this, cupcake?”

“I- I don’t know, my foot got stuck and I just got so _tired_ ,” you whine. The baseball bat clatters to the floor, rolling under one of the bodies.

“I’ve got you, ok? I’ll get you out of here. Now, I need you to stay very still for me, do you think you can do that?” he asks in a gruff voice.

You nod, eyes wide and blank, gaze tracking his figure as he leaps and sinks his blade into the undead’s neck, chopping off the head. With a dry and sickening crack, you manage to jerk your foot free. “Thank you, thank you so much, you saved me I- I don’t know your name…”

“I’m Officer Ronnie Peterson. We can chat and get to know each other later, cupcake. More of those fuckin’ biters will arrive soon, let’s go. C’mon.” He motions towards his vehicle, letting you walk in front of him.

You rush to keep up with his large footsteps, stopping when he puts a massive hand on your shoulder.

“This is not very nice, but I hope you understand why I have to do it.” Ronnie runs his knuckles down your arms, tugging your wrists behind your back. “We just met and I don’t know if you got bitten, so I need to make sure you can’t hurt either of us before we get you checked out, alright, sugar pie?”

Peering at the reflection on the car window, you flush at how _towering_ he is compared to you, thick and strong. He’s so big, there’s no way you could hurt him, right? But what he’s saying does make sense and you don’t want to put him in danger, not after he’s saved your life.

“It’s fine, Ronnie, I get it. Will it hurt?” You crane your neck to look at him, working your lip between his teeth.

“No, not at all, it’s going to be just a pinch. But I know you can be a brave girl and take it, right?” He holds your wrists in one hand, while the other paws at his pockets in search of the handcuffs.

“I can,” you nod.

His mouth curls into a smile and in one swift motion, steel cuffs bite at your soft flesh, pulling a gasp from you.

“There you go, there you go,” Ronnie coos, running his thumb to soothe your skin. “Let’s hit the road.”

He wrenches the door open and guides you inside, settling you on the backseat and ensuring you’re comfortable.The seatbelt clicks into place and he smooths down your clothes, taking a few seconds to brush off some dirt from your shoulders.

Seeing his face from such a short distance, you seize the chance to take in his features: a large, aquiline nose that’s speckled with beauty marks; sharp, hazel eyes with blown out pupils and plump lips that’s set in a pout.

“Everything alright, pumpkin?” He coasts his thumb across your lower lip. “Sit tight and we’ll get there in no time.”

“I’ll be fine,” you whisper, lifting your chin.

With one last glance in your direction, Ronnie exits and takes his place in the driver’s seat, slamming on the gas pedal and cantering out of the haunted suburb.

The idyllic streets of Centerville have been corrupted into demolished, foreign neighbourhoods you don’t recognize anymore. Fallen trees, broken poles and torn houses cast fleeting shadows on the patrol car’s window, soon giving way to a deserted road.

After a few beats of timid silence, Ronnie pulls up into a police station, parking the car over the unkempt grass. The area seems to be clear from the walking dead and for that you’re grateful. He grabs a shotgun from the passenger’s seat, slings it over his shoulder and exits the car, swinging open the door to your left.  
  
“Let’s get you inside, cupcake.” He helps you slither out of the backseat, keeping a hand pinned to the area where your wrists are bound and herds you inside the station. The gates lock with a metallic clang; puffs of dust and shriveled cobwebs cascade down the corners of the ceiling.

You squint as he flicks the lights on, eyes scanning the rather bare environment. Plain wooden desks, scattered boxes of ammo, canned food and planks boarding up the small windows.

“I know it’s no five-star room, but I promise you it’s safe,” Ronnie drawls, stepping around to stand in front of you. He produces a small flashlight from the pocket of his grey uniform, shining it over your eyes. “Follow the light.”

Pupils constricted as you track the object, you shudder under the intensity of his gaze. It unnerves you, how his honeyed eyes seem to mask something far sinister beneath. A breath you had no recollection of holding leaves your lungs when his long, thick fingers cradle your jaw, turning your face in all directions. 

His skin is warm, calloused, his grip is firm and assured. Palm trailing down your neck, he rakes his thumb across your throat, tightening his hold until he feels your pulse skyrocket, a spark of terror glinting on your eye.

Once the assessment is complete, Ronnie releases you, hands moving to tug at the collar of your tattered shirt. “You seem fine. But I want to make sure there’s not a scratch on you. I’ll start with your foot and we’ll go from there, ok?” 

“Go on, I don’t want to be any trouble,” you reply in a clipped voice. A well opens in the bottom of your stomach, dread tingling up your spine, there’s something you don’t like about any of this, but he means well, right? He just wants to protect you.

He marches you over to a desk, instructing you to grip the edges with your bound hands. Then, drops to one knee, propping your foot in the other and starts tugging off your boot and socks. The coarse pads of his fingers tickle the inside of your ankle and you struggle to remain in place and not lose your balance.

“These jeans are so tight. I can’t see anything. I’m going to cut _some_ of it off. You have to be good for me and stay very, very still again, sugar pie.” With one hand he unclips the machete from his belt and hooks his other thumb under the bottom hem of your pants, tugging the garment away from your skin.

His glasses slide down the bridge of his long nose but he pays no mind to it, lifting the massive blade and cutting off the fabric, the sharp edge coasting just close enough against your shivering flesh. When the pants are ripped up to your knees, he stops, setting the weapon down and using both hands to knead your calves, fingers skimming the sensitive skin behind your knee.

“Do you feel when I do this?” He rubs the rough pad of his index thumb over your flesh, dark eyes tuned to your reaction.

“Yes.”

His eyebrows furrow. “Are you sure? I want to think long and hard about it. One of the first symptoms of turning into the zombies is full loss of sensitivity. You have to tell me everything you’re feeling. I’m gonna do it again.”

All you can do is nod.

His hand roams higher, nails dragging against your skin, this time successful in pulling a choked gasp from you. Gaze flickering in your direction, he hums, pleased with your responsiveness. “Good. That’s a start. But it’s still not enough. I’m going to cut off some more of your pants and check your thigh. It’s ok to be scared, pumpkin, but I’ll take care of you. You just have to trust me.”

Swallowing hard, you still manage to utter a weak reply, words otherwise failing you. Ronnie’s touch is light, subtle, yet the warmth of his hand sears into your skin. Alert, wide eyes follow the upward trajectory of his palm, breath catching in your throat at the feel of his rough skin against yours. The handcuffs clang as you shift in place, tightening your grip on the desk behind you, searching for reassurance that you won’t fall.

“You have to be still, sugar cake,” he tuts, stern gaze flitting to your face. “This is very, _very_ sharp. We don’t want any accidents, right?”

“No.” Committing to not moving an inch out of place, you take in a deep breath, letting the cold air sit on your lungs while Ronnie does his thing.

He nips and tugs at your jeans, working with surprising precision for someone wielding a machete. When the blade is just about reaching the highest portion of your thigh, he sets the weapon down, gripping the edges of the fabric and shredding it apart. Your pants now sport two gashes separating the seams that run across your whole leg. If he wants to, he can sweep the fabric to the side and gain full access from your ankle to your inner thigh.

“Let’s check, now…” He trails off, wrapping both palms around your knee, thumbs kneading the yielding flesh above it. “Do you feel when I squeeze here?”

The action sends electricity up your leg, scrambling your brain as each and every rational thought evaporates, leaving behind a fog. Your mouth parts, a soft gasp escaping you. “I feel it, Ronnie.”

“That’s great, pumpkin. You’re doing so well for me.” His eyes flit to you, pupils wide and dark and animalistic; a muscle twitches on his jaw as he grinds his molars and the corners of his mouth tilt up. Tightening his grip for a moment, his hands dare to roam upward.

Squirming under his hold, you lose your balance, the foot that was once planted on the ground slips and if it weren’t for Ronnie’s hold, you’d be a pitiful heap on the floor. 

He’s quick to grab your leg and hook it over his shoulder, supporting your lower half with his body.

“Now, now, can’t have you falling on your cute ass, can I?” he laughs, shuffling closer. There’s a dazzling glint on his eyes when he asks, “What’s got you so worked up like this?”

“I- uh… it’s nothing, Ronnie, keep going,” you stammer. Biting back a sigh, you battle against the flush that threatens to spread across your face, gnawing on your lower lip.

  
  
  


“Don’t mind if I do,” he answers. “Actually. I might as well check on the other side… Is that ok with you, sugar pie?”

Mind swirling in a cotton-candy haze, you nod, still undecided if you should be terrified. You feel like you should. This man’s a stranger, the chance of him having your best interest in mind is quite low. But why do you want to let him take every inch of your body? 

Your ankle grazes the firm muscles of his back, you almost can’t believe how wide it is. That shouldn’t come as a surprise, you’ve seen how everything about Ronnie is large, above-average and imposing, but it still astonishes you.

Lifting his machete, he drags the flat of the blade over the side of your leg, his left hand splayed over your thigh. He warns you again to stay put before cutting a long, clean stripe across the seam of your pants. Cooing at you as you start to shiver, he also slices a horizontal line from front pocket to front pocket. His hands grip the edges of the fabric tugging in opposite directions, shredding whatever is left and exposing you further. “You’re soaked,” he whispers in a deep tone.

Your white underwear is almost transparent, saturated with the wetness that has been pooling since Ronnie started touching you. He tracks his knuckles across your slit, mesmerized by the way the garment is molded to you and how your thighs quiver in response to the lightest of touches. Deciding enough is enough, he begins to press slow, feather-soft circles to your clit.

“Is that good or bad? Does it mean I’m not turning into a zombie, then?” Crossing your ankles over the expanse of his back, you inadvertently pull him closer.

“That’s good, very good. I need more time with you to check if you’ve been infected or not.” He rubs in tighter, faster motions when he notices your lower lip quivering. “Oh, no, no, no, don’t be embarrassed cupcake. You’re doing great, I’m so proud of you.”

“Thank you, Ronnie.” You squeeze your eyes shut when he starts applying a bit more pressure over your swollen bud. A muscle twitches on your jaw as you grind your teeth, stifling the barrage of lascivious sounds that are threatening to pour out of you.

“You look worried, pumpkin. What’s going on that pretty little head of yours?” He taps your clit, as light as he can, just to have you buck under his grip, thighs squeezing his neck harder.

“I don’t know you… and I don’t think my boyfriend would like this very much. But he never made me feel this good. Not like you, Ronnie.” Just to prove your point, your hips toss from side to side as pure rapture builds up inside you, to a level unseen.

“Oh, sweet girl. I’ll take care of you, ok? You just need to do everything I say.” To your chagrin, he pulls his hands away from your drenched cunt. Reaching around you, he undoes your restraints; the handcuffs clatter on the ground. Once he leans back on his knees he ensures your calves are looped over his shoulder. Ever so needy, he pinches the squishy flesh of your inner thigh for attention. “Put your fingers except your thumb inside your mouth. Gag on them. Good. It will help you cum better.”

Sputtering around your fingers, you clench at nothing, his words striking a deep chord within you. Ronnie’s no knight in shining armor, you can’t be that naive to believe it, but right now he’s doing a lot more for you than your deadbeat boyfriend ever did and you’re very much inclined to indulge Officer Peterson.

A curved thread of saliva connects the tips of your fingers to your lips when you pull out your wrist, giving yourself some time to breathe.

Cradling your hand, he guides it to his mouth, swollen, wet pink lips closing around your digits and slurping hard, tongue leaving no inch untouched. He releases a languid, baritone moan, the noise reverbing across the length of your arm.

When he’s sated enough, he removes your hand from his mouth, and sets it at your side, coaxing you to grip the edge of the desk. His dark eyes peer back at yours, and he licks his lips with a slow, deliberate swipe. Ronnie always has been patient, collected, a man with a plan, but he finds himself on the verge of throwing logic to the gutter. No, no, no. That won’t do.

“Can you do something else for me?” he asks, running a hand through his hair and fixing up his glasses. “Take off your shirt and whatever’s underneath it. For decontamination purposes. I won’t let you go cold for long, cupcake. But you need to be patient and wait for me. Will you?”

You bob your head, teeth clenched as the cold bites at your bare flesh. “I will, Ronnie.”

“I knew you’d be compliant,” he murmurs, a slow breath leaving his throat and fanning against your skin. Ronnie adds, mouthing to himself, “Still have to take care of some things…”

Hooking two fingers under the waistband of your panties, he tugs at it until it’s halfway down your thighs. He’s so quick to cut it out that it’s impossible to even register how _close_ the blade was to your skin, but that’s water under the bridge; the underwear is discarded to the floor, split in two.

“Ronnie…” you whine, brows knitted. “I’m cold.”

“I know,” he coos. “I _know_. We’ll get to it. You’re such an impatient sweet thing, aren’t you? We’re just getting started.”

He teases your entrance with his index finger, swirling it in all directions, drawing everything he can out of you, feeling the slick drip over his wrist. His lips lowers to the glistening expanse of your chest, trailing kisses down your sternung, his tongue darting out to taste you. At the same time, his free hand skims across your ribcage, guiding your breast to his waiting mouth; he sucks hard on your nipple, closing his teeth around it a few times, cock twitching at the way your arch your back, pushing your body onto his.  
  
That’s when he pushes two fingers inside you, up to the last knuckle. He’s not slow, or soft, he pummels his wrist in and out, smirking as his watch jiggles with the sheer speed of it. The sinful, gushing noises he’s pulling from you should be too good to be true.

Your hips rise from the table as your body seeks more friction and more of him, thighs squeezing harder around his neck. “I feel so full. Ronnie, your hand is massive, I don’t know how many fingers I can-”

A loud _pop_ echoes into the station as he detaches from your nipple.

His lips curl up into a smile and his crooked, beguiling teeth catch little specks of light. “Look how well you’re doing, cookie, you’re clamping so hard I think you’re gonna break something. I don’t want you to worry, or _think_ about anything. Let me handle you. All you gotta do is take everything I give you. Now, how does it feel?”

“Tight. Full. Like you’re scrambling me from the inside. So overwhelming- _Ronnie!_ ” you whimper in response to the curl of his fingers, to the way they drag across your front walls, pushing up and making you see blazing stars.

“Poor thing, let me make it better ok? It’s not going to hurt as much,” his thumb flicks your swollen, hot clit again. “There, there, doesn’t it feel better now?”

Gawking at him, you nod, closing your eyes and throwing your head back, legs convulsing as he adds a third finger. You hear him growl--a low, throaty sound that scatters throughout your skin and runs like a shiver down your spine. Soon, the touch that worked magic on your nipple disappears, a hand splays on your lower stomach, keeping you pinned flat to the table.

He untucks his aching cock out of his pants, hissing at how swollen and tender it is, so sensitive that he’s afraid he will blow his load before he can pound your cunt raw. Guiding the red, angry tip inside, he flicks it up and down to stretch you further and he’s rewarded with the cry for his name.

Mouth nibbling at the shell of your ear, he whispers praise, coaxes every bit of devotion out of you, because he can't help to yearn for that look in your eyes--the one that flickered between distrust and adoration.

Your arms wrap tighter around him and just like that your cunt takes him in further, stretching to the delicate boundary of pain and bliss to accommodate his girth. In response, you feel his hands clutch to your hips--a bruising, ravenous grip--and your body rocks back and forth over his length, guided by him.

It's a whirlwind. It hurts. Then it doesn't. Then it hurts _better_ than the previous time. 

He grunts a choked plea as you tighten around him, so hard that his heart leaps to his throat, his hands would shake if they weren’t tethered to your body. Bewildered, he pauses for a moment, savouring the minute flutters of your tight, wet, hot, perfect cunt. “I’m so glad I found you… _fuck fuck fuck_ I’m never letting you go.”

“I wish there was something I could do…” you pant between whimpers, “...to pay you back.”

Ronnie caresses your cheek with his thumb. “There is something. I’m going to cum inside your tight cunt and I want you to do your best to keep it all inside you, ok? Can you do that for me?” he asks, voice so earnest, so sweet, just the way it needs to be to tug at your heartstrings.

Assenting, you smother another whimper by burying your face into his shirt. The collar is crunched between your fists and you're impressed you haven’t torn apart any seams or popped any of his buttons. You’re gripping onto him for dear life, letting him be your anchor as your body convulses with the impending crest of your release.

He stops moving and so does your world.

You pull apart from his chest, heavy breathing tuned to his own. "Ronnie?" 

"You need to use your words, cupcake. I asked you a question." Sheathing all the way in, he uses the weight of his body to keep you down, folding your thighs until they touch your stomach.

“I’m gonna keep it all, just like you said, please, just move!” you howl.

He snaps his hips in slow and clipped movements--you almost don’t feel them at first--but soon he’s pulling the very breath of your lungs, adding more and more and more pressure to the delight he’s been enticing into you.

Everywhere below your waist _thrums_ at his whim, you had no idea such thing was possible, to feel anything in this intensity, to feel too good and too much, to have your head wiped out of all thought except for _more more more_.

With a low goan from the bottom of his throat, plunges into you one last time and that's all it takes to pop the bubble that had been stretching on throughout the evening. 

You feel him deep deep deep, somewhere no one else will ever be, the spongy head of his massive cock pressing against something that fits so right. His body was made for this, there's no other explanation, it took the ending of the world--or at least the ending of your microcosm--to find him and for him to find you.

His cock pulsates and he spills wave after wave of hot cum into you, fucking throughout his release, hips stammering as he’s depleted of everything but the need of burying himself inside you. As he climbs from the precipice, his ragged breaths fan over your skin, his mouth near yours, lips just about touching your sweltering flesh. He lowers his head, eyes fluttering shut, and runs the bridge of his long nose across your cheek. “Perfect, perfect, _perfect…_ ” he chants.

Ronnie cradles the back of your neck, restricting the blood flow just the slightest. His other hand roams down your naked, shivering flesh, finding purchase on your breast, kneading it to his heart’s content. Pinching your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, he’s quick to work you up again, skirting the edge of overstimulation and silencing your moans with a ravenous kiss.

  
Melting onto him, you mold your body to his, shuddering as he starts to harden again, feeling the wicked stretch of his growing length. To think that the night could have turned for the worst if he had never showed up. The world is full of monsters now… but you’re glad you found yours.


End file.
